


Long Overdue

by stepantrofimovic



Series: Fidelis et Fortis [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014), d'Artagnan Romances (Three Musketeers Series) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff, I promise this is 100 percent unrepentant fluff, Inspired By Tumblr, M/M, Reunions, brief mention of AIDS as a mistaken diagnosis, middle-aged men being awkward around each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 18:16:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9249863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic
Summary: “Prime Minister, all that’s left before we wrap up is a question that I always ask to my most important guests. To put it simply, have you ever been in love?”“I – yes. There was someone, once. But it was a long time ago.”Inspired by a relationship prompt on Tumblr: "you’re famous and just got asked if you were ever in love this should be good– WAIT WHAT" au.





	

**Author's Note:**

> bean-about-townn reblogged [this post](http://bean-about-townn.tumblr.com/post/155525090478/reunited-aus) on Tumblr yesterday, and I believe her exact words were ‘if there is any justice in the world someone pls write one of these for trevilieu.’ I can’t promise anything about cosmic justice, but here it is.

“Hey, Captain,” Porthos calls from the living room. “Your favourite politician is on TV.”

As always, the nickname makes Treville smile. Even though he must have heard it a thousand times, the fact that after all these years Porthos still calls him by his former Army rank makes him feel like he belongs.

He walks out of the kitchen, wiping his hands in a towel. If Porthos is right, the rest of the dishes can wait. Seeing that, indeed, an interview with Prime Minister Richelieu is on, he sits beside Porthos on the sofa.

His living room is packed tonight – Porthos brought Élodie, whose second pregnancy is starting to show, and three-year-old Marie-Cessette, who is currently perched on Constance’s knee, after having taken her fill of everyone’s attention. D’Artagnan sits beside Constance on the ottoman, while Athos and Aramis are relegated to the floor.

The interview with the Prime Minister seems already well under way, so they must have just switched channels. Jean doesn’t dwell too much on the fact that Porthos immediately thought of calling him. His innocuous obsession with Richelieu is well known to all his friends, and if sometimes Jean thinks that Porthos suspects there’s more to it, he’s never deemed it necessary to ask, and that’s enough.

The programme is one of those early evening talk shows, and the host seems determined to keep all questions on the light, personal side. Any direct engagement with political topics is kept pretty shallow, so there is no occasion for discussion among the party in Treville’s apartment. Treville’s friends (and Jean himself, if he’s honest) usually have a lot to say about Richelieu’s policies, but one can’t deny that the man is such a pleasant conversationalist when he wants to be. It’s a treat to watch him speak, no matter any political divergences one might have.

The interviewer asks a few questions about Richelieu’s home life. As the man starts talking about his four cats, Jean can’t help but smile. _Some things never change._

“Prime Minister, all that’s left before we wrap up is a question that I always ask to my most important guests. To put it simply, have you ever been in love?”

“Did she really just ask that?” Athos grumbles.

D’Artagnan leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Shush! This should be good.”

The subtle widening of Richelieu’s eyes tells Jean that this question was definitely not scripted or screened. The host has clearly gone off the book for this – maybe she expected him to be prepared, if this really is one of her regular questions. Still, there are so many ways for Richelieu to brush the topic off, to avoid –

“I – yes. There was someone, once. But it was a long time ago.”

“Wait, what?” Porthos’ disbelief is probably shared by the rest of the room. As for Jean, he’s frozen in place.

“Oh, this is very interesting!” the host exclaims, clearly sensing the potential scoop. “Would you care to elaborate a little for our audience? I’m sure many people would be delighted to hear more.”

Richelieu looks a lot like someone was driving a tow truck over his toenails. Repeatedly. “I – it was during my university years. Not a time I talk about a lot, I know.” He seems to have regained some of his aplomb. At least he’s stopped fidgeting in his seat. “We were, uh, close. Friends. Best friends, maybe? We spent most of our time together, and – we enjoyed each other’s company, I’d say? Anyway, I never dared think there could be more, so. That’s how it goes.”

He finishes with a rueful smile. The host looks like she’s hanging off his lips. “And then?”

Richelieu’s expression turns sour. “We – drifted apart, I guess. I, uh. Made some mistakes.”

 _Some mistakes. All right_ , is Jean’s first coherent thought. He seems to have forgotten how to breathe for the last couple of minutes.

“Do you think she remembers you?”

 _She._ Of course. How dare Jean –

“I – would like to hope so, yes.” There’s a noticeable pause, Richelieu seemingly catching himself. He draws a shallow breath before continuing. “And – he remembers me. Not she. It was not a woman.”

“… _what_ ,” d’Artagnan hisses. “No, seriously, _what?_ ”

As the rest of his friends start commenting aloud, the only thing Treville can do is remain unmoving in his seat.

“And, correct me if I’m wrong, but you are implying that there was no one after that,” the host ploughs on, undeterred.

“No,” Richelieu answers, as if it were a simple thing. “No one. This sort of thing only happens once, I’m afraid.”

Oh, _fuck_.

***

The thing is, you don’t simply call the Prime Minister’s number and say “hey, I’m your best friend from twenty years ago, and I believe you just confessed your love for me on national television yesterday night.” No, that’s really not a thing that can be done.

It couldn’t be done even if it weren’t the Prime Minister, of course. The thing is, it’s been twenty years. Not only have things changed, Jean has changed. He enlisted in the Army, for one thing. He has scars, and not just physical ones. He has new friends, a found family of people who mostly detest Richelieu and would probably like to see him hang, if hanging was an option.

“You’re overthinking it,” says Athos. Treville would really, really like to believe he’s right.

***

In the end, he underestimates the powers of tabloid press. The next round of the less-reputable papers are filled with reports about Richelieu’s past liaisons, official or otherwise, and the predictable speculations about his mysterious university sweetheart, but none of them comes close to the mark. Until the end of the week, when the Sunday Mirror comes forward with an exclusive interview. As soon as he recognizes Louis’ familiar head of curls on the cover, Jean knows that he’s doomed.

His phone starts ringing around half past eight in the morning. It doesn’t stop.

The elegant young woman from what is obviously a government office rings his bell at ten o’clock sharp. Jean is wearing flannel pants and a sweatshirt, and it’s a good thing he managed to have a shower, brush his teeth and comb his hair to a semblance of reason. (It’s not a good morning, okay. How could it be?)

“The Prime Minister would like to apologize.”

“All right,” Jean gruffs. “Tell him –”

The woman raises a dainty, manicured hand. “He would like to apologize _in person_. Is this afternoon around five an acceptable time for a meeting?”

After the woman has left, it takes a couple of minutes for Jean to pick his jaw up from the floor.

***

So, Treville does the thing he always does whenever he gets stuck on something: he calls Porthos.

Porthos is at his door an hour later, Marie-Cessette firmly tucked against his chest. Élodie is on call from the hospital today, Jean knows, and anyway, the little girl would never miss an opportunity to visit her Uncle Jean. They talk as he scrambles together something for lunch.

“So,” Porthos says, his tone carefully neutral. “The Prime Minister.”

“Yes.”

“That’s why you always seemed to like him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“What happened between you two?” Porthos is not one for beating around the bush. As Jean sits down, waiting for the pasta water to boil, little Marie climbs into his lap. He half-hides his face into her blonde curls, depositing a kiss on the crown of her head.

“We – were friends. Just as he said.”

“And then?”

Treville sighs. “Another friend of ours – Louis, the one who gave the interview to the Mirror.”

Porthos’ grin is not friendly, two rows of strong, white teeth showing. “Nice chap, that one.”

Jean smiles. “He has his good moments, I promise. Anyway, he had an AIDS scare.” This time, Porthos winces. “Armand’s reaction was… not a good one.”

“What did he do?”

“He – I really don’t want to repeat some of the things he said.” Porthos’ jaw tightens. “The test results came back negative, in the end. Louis has – a genetic condition. It’s treatable. It’s not bad, as these things go. Nothing to do with HIV, anyway. It doesn’t matter. By the time we knew that, Armand and I were – not on speaking terms anymore.”

He tightens his hold around Marie-Cessette, who’s kept silent for longer than she ever does. Probably feeling the way the atmosphere in the room turned heavy. “I may have overreacted. I don’t know. But I was a young, closeted gay man in Oxford, in the Nineties, and my best friend – my very straight best friend, whom I was in love with – was saying those things about – yeah.”

He shakes his head. Porthos just nods, sympathetic. As Jean expected him to be. “Anyway, a couple of months later my father died, and then I rushed off to graduate without honours, and I ended up joining the Army. The rest is history, I’m afraid. And now –” He lets his voice trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence. He stands up instead, setting Marie-Cessette down carefully to check on the pasta water. It’s boiling. He throws in a handful of salt.

“What you’re saying is, you’re not sure that you want to meet him.”

He doesn’t turn around, busying himself with measuring out the penne. “What I’m saying is, he doesn’t want to meet _me_. Not after more than twenty years.”

“Why?”

This time he does turn around, a huff of laughter on his lips. “Porthos, I’m almost fifty.”

“You’re forty-five. And anyway, so is he.”

“I’m a retired Army officer. I work at the library!”

“The British Library.”

He makes a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I have a bad shoulder from being shot. Grey hair.”

“Sexy grey hair.”

“Did you just call my hair sexy? In front of your own daughter?”

Porthos groans, but doesn’t back down. “Still.”

He drives a hand through his hair in frustration. It makes him keenly aware of how far his hairline has receded. Yes, just what he needed, great. “What I’m saying is, I’m not the same as twenty years ago. Armand – Richelieu doesn’t want – this.”

“Well,” Porthos smiles. “Let’s just hope he’s not the same as twenty years ago either, then.”

***

In the end, Porthos leaves about mid-afternoon, after they’ve decided on a pair of jeans and a sweater that brings out Jean’s eyes (and that was met with Marie-Cessette’s very serious nod of approval). It leaves Jean free to worry and fuss about the state of his house.

After he’s decided that there’s no way he’s ever going to tidy up all those books, not when there’s simply not enough space for them on the shelves, he resigns himself to sitting on the sofa and pretending he’s relaxing. A glance to the clock says half past four. Jean sighs.

The doorbell rings exactly three minutes before five, because Armand has always been a punctual asshole. As he opens the door, Jean observes three things.

One, Armand is wearing a suit. Just as Jean expected. He’s seen Armand in suits, sees him on TV all the time. The effect is, uh, quite different in person. Jean’s mouth has suddenly gone very dry.

Two, he’s not wearing a tie. Which draws attention to the offensive amount of exposed skin between his jawline and the first button of his shirt. Said first button is undone. Jean _hates him_.

Three, as soon as Armand steps into his apartment, his whole posture relaxes a fraction and his expression opens up. It makes Jean’s stomach do things.

“Can I – can I offer you something? Tea, perhaps? I’m sure I have coffee somewhere, if you prefer. Just need to, uh, dig it out.” Way to go, Jean. _Waaay_ to go.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Armand’s voice is warmer in person, Jean notices. Armand’s voice. _In person._

Well, _fuck_.

Making tea would at least have given him an excuse not to look at Armand. As it is, they’re stuck standing in Jean’s living room, staring at each other for a very awkward minute or so.

Standing. Oh. Right.

Jean clears his throat. “Uh, have a seat?”

Armand does, steepling his fingers together in front of him. Jean sits opposite him on the ottoman.

“I have come to apologize.”

Jean can’t help a rather undignified snort. “For what?”

Armand’s smile is self-deprecating enough that Jean’s sudden bout of hostility abates as quickly as it came. “I was thinking for dragging your name onto the tabloid pages, but I think the apology can be extended to, uh, cover other things.”

“You know there’s a lot of _other things_ to cover, don’t you?”

Armand raises an eyebrow. “All of them on my side?”

Jean rubs a hand over his face. That’s not the way he imagined this conversation would go, not at all.

“I really thought you were straight,” he blurts out. _And definitely not in love with me._

“So did I. I was also very scared. And stupid. And prejudiced, I suppose. And you liked Louis better than me.”

Jean looks at Armand. Armand makes an abortive movement that might almost be categorized as squirming. It’s – not terribly dignified.

Jean can’t help it. He bursts out laughing, a full belly laugh. When he’s finished, Armand is still staring at him, but his expression is very different.

He’s smiling, deep laugh lines appearing all around his eyes and mouth. He looks happy. At ease. Gorgeous.

“God, I missed you,” he says. And Jean – oh, fuck it.

Jean stands up, and he’s already crossed the carpet in two strides, and Armand is standing up in turn to meet him. He waits for Armand to rest a hand on his arm, giving him silent permission, before he leans in.

Armand’s lips are dry, but not unpleasantly so. His hair is soft and wispy, and his nose keeps getting in the way, and they can’t find a comfortable position because Jean keeps pushing him back against the armchair in his attempts to deepen the kiss.

It’s perfect.

When they finally pull apart, Jean rests his forehead against Armand’s. Armand’s smile says, _sap_ , without any need for him to voice the thought aloud.

“We have a lot of catching up to do,” Jean says.

“Not really.” Armand sounds breathless. Jean is very proud of himself right now. “You were honourably discharged from the Army ten years ago. You have a job you like and friends I wouldn’t approve of. You volunteer at a veteran’s support organization regularly. No pets, which is a good thing, because my cats are territorial.”

The promise in Armand’s words makes Jean shiver. “You must have a good secret service.”

“I don’t need my secret service to find out about these things.”

“Well,” Jean says, pulling back a little. The way Armand leans in instinctively to follow him doesn’t escape his notice. “For those of us who don’t have staff to gather information for them, how about you tell me a few things about your life? It _has_ been twenty years, after all.”

“Do we have time for that?” It comes out casual, because Armand is still a pretty good politician and diplomat, even now, but Jean can hear the real question underneath his words.

“We can start with dinner. Then we’ll see. What do you say to that?”

“I say it’s about twenty years overdue.” Armand’s eyes are shining. Jean wants to kiss every inch of skin around them. “But it’s perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> As usual, [I'm on Tumblr](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/) if you want to come gush about stuff. For anyone who doesn't know already, I'm also [taking prompts](http://stepantrofimovic.tumblr.com/prompts/).

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Meet the Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9372404) by [stepantrofimovic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepantrofimovic/pseuds/stepantrofimovic)




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